


The Second Spring

by theglamourfades



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Early in Canon, F/M, My First Fanfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 10:01:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17465402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theglamourfades/pseuds/theglamourfades
Summary: The day she has waited for for so long has finally arrived and change is in the air. But why can't Anna embrace it?





	1. Running in Circles

**Author's Note:**

> This was the very first fic I wrote, way back in the mists of time (or 2012). I was so heartbroken over the end of S2 and the wait to S3 that I was compelled to start writing. It's kind of weird to look back on it now...

_"Yet still, from time to time, vague and forlorn,_  
_From the soul's subterranean depth upborne_  
_As from an infinitely distant land,_  
_Come airs, and floating echoes, and convey_  
_A melancholy into all our day._

 _Only-but this is rare-_  
_When a beloved hand is laid in ours,_  
_When, jaded with the rush and glare_  
_Of the interminable hours,_  
_Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear,_  
_When our world-deafen'd ear_  
_Is by the tones of a loved voice caress'd-_  
_A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast,_  
_And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again._  
_The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain,_  
_And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know."_

The day, when it arrived, was the precise day that summer had chosen to turn to autumn. Change had come on instantaneously, erupting without the slightest indication or warning sign; nature was clearly greatly impatient to break forth with its transformation, unwilling to wait a moment longer. The trees that surrounded and shrouded the grounds of Downton, ones that stood as tall and proud as the great house itself and had encountered innumerable shifts in season over not years but centuries, had effortlessly entered another cycle in their ever-revolving lifespan. All around foliage had been set aflame; a blaze of colour sweeping across the skies. Having moved past the innocence of spring into the awakening of summer those small buds had confidently come into their own, embraced the opportunity to evolve, to transform; imbued and enlivened with renewed spirit, now burning bright and beautiful for all to see; a final flourish before they fell gracefully to the ground and everything was to begin again.

Gazing from the window that morning, casting her eyes over the glow outside, Anna should have appreciated the rapid alteration. Autumn had always been her favourite season – if she so wished, she could have taken its swift appearance on this very day as an unmistakeable and overwhelmingly good omen, a lucky charm of sorts; some time ago she would have taken this view to her heart without question or doubt. It had also not escaped her that the sudden and startling change in the physical atmosphere was really quite appropriate, everything considered. If she had been an onlooker, watching what was happening from afar to someone else, she would have smiled assuredly, even laughed to think how funny it really was, and been reassured that the scene had most certainly been set for a happy outcome. But as it was she could find little joy in what she saw before her; she could not rouse her lips to curl softly upwards to acknowledge the merest hint of humour at the coincidence.

Neither could she claim to have been affected with the same surge of energy or noticeable transformation that the leaves on the trees had displayed so proudly. She had remained the same inside as she had done for the past eighteen months, the frenzies of intense fear that had overtaken her whole being at the times of the unceremonial arrest and the unbearable trial fizzling gradually away to leave a dormant sorrow; the hope she had once possessed dwindling to near-depletion and instead replaced with a desperate, resolute longing. It seemed only right somehow that she should feel the sensation so intensely; she had grown reluctantly but thoroughly accustomed to it over the years, in all of its various nuances, and had perfected its self-containment to a fine art. It was the feeling that seemed to define her existence entirely; why should she expect that it would suddenly disappear, even with the prospect of it finally being fulfilled once and for all? Nevertheless, she had expected that there would have been some change within her when she had arisen this morning, if only very small, as a recognition of what was immediately ahead. But so far: nothing. She felt just as unsettled and confused as she had at the breaking of every dawn, the boundary between dreaming and reality swiftly shattered, the temporary and brief displacement of who or where she was wrenched away when she blinked in the emerging light, turned over and realised once more that he was not beside her and she must face another day alone. With each sunrise, the dull ache at the centre of her chest embedded itself a little further and increased in size and weight, invading her body. Somewhat strangely a sense of calm overcame her, but instinctively she felt that its presence wasn't entirely positive; it was not so much a source of comfort and encouragement that everything would turn out for the best but an acceptance that it was to always be this way; that she would be eternally with him but without him: hearts joined but selves separated, stranded, never to return. She felt numb, as though every drop of emotion had been wrung from her. Perhaps she had transformed without realising it, changed into another version of herself; one that was beaten and broken irreparably from everything she had encountered and was ultimately altered into something very different - someone that she wasn't supposed to be but which unavoidable circumstances had conspired to create against her will. She hoped and prayed to God that this was not the case.

Perhaps she did not feel the prospective change, would not allow it to so much as brush past her like the lightest of autumn breezes, never mind let it into the very centre of her being, as she couldn't quite conceive that it was actually due to happen, despite the fact that she must have asked Mr Crawley the same questions what seemed like a million times;  _Was it really true? Would this be the day –_ the date given to her less than a week ago, when plans were finally secure –  _that he would be truly free? Free from all accusations and burdens; free to return to Downton, his position, his home: her._ Every time she repeated her pleas – and they would spring from her mouth at least every couple of minutes in the small space of time she encountered him in the house each day, her words echoing the same unspoken thoughts that occupied her mind every waking moment – Mr Crawley would smile warmly, place a firm hand briefly on her shoulder and pledge his utmost confidence and certainty in the matter. Still, she could not silence her doubts, the nagging voice in her head that kept taunting that it could not possibly be true, something was bound to fall through, go wrong and she would continue to wait; would wait endlessly for a day that would never arrive for the rest of her life. To believe, to place her trust implicitly in this imminent event seemed to tempt fate incredibly, and that force had certainly not been kind to her. Indeed, it had unleashed some of its cruellest twists with impeccable timing, always delivering its blows to coincide with her purest, most ecstatic bliss; a shadow lingering in wait to extinguish the light, a painful but necessary reminder that life was not about roses and rainbows and enduring happiness – if that was not the case for the privileged and inherently fortunate such as the Crawleys, it most definitely would not be the case for her. She wanted sincerely to grasp the possibility in the air, pin it down and clutch it tight to her, let it envelop every fibre with steely strength and unshakeable belief. But she knew if she dared to reach out her fingers, it would disappear quicker than the mist that bathed the morning. She could no longer put her faith in promises, no matter if they came from the most well-intentioned sources. Certainly, she had no faith in her own judgements anymore, so much had they wavered wildly back and forth: from wishful thinking one moment to hopeless resignation the next.

She turned her back to the window and the sea of searing colour outside, returning to the gloom of the muted room, the life seemingly seeping from her surroundings too. She wondered if that was a cause or an effect of her inhabiting it. Her feet were rooted to the small spot; she was stuck still, her body turning to stone except for her eyes which glanced rapidly but aimlessly around and her mind which continued to race against everything. She knew she had to move, she could feel her nerves screaming out, but was temporarily unable to do so. Something fundamental had faltered within her, not for the first time. How ridiculous, she thought. It's not as if she was somewhere unfamiliar; she might understand being overcome by a swift terror if in strange surroundings but she was in the room she'd occupied it seemed almost all of her life. Perhaps that was just it; her life wasn't as it used to be, no longer could it fit neatly into one little compartment. She shouldn't even be here anymore, having to live in half a room with another housemaid. She should be in their own cottage, filling up every space. Not to be confined like she was here.  _Confined._  A sharp pang of guilt spiked her and she recoiled at her selfishness. How dare she use that word to refer to herself? She had no right, given that at this moment only her husband knew the true and deeply unjust meaning of the word. Still, their souls were so closely connected that anything he felt was reciprocated by her to a lesser degree: an aftershock from an earthquake.

She shook her head, also shaking herself from mental stupor. Her eye was drawn to the shining silver glint of an object resting on the nightstand beside her bed, glistening intently; the only point of light in the dulled space. She gravitated towards it, the one thing that held her attention in the strange spell that she was still under. A pocket watch: a gift intended for John for his birthday from the Earl.

" _Probably not the best choice, I realise. Cora and the girls are much better at picking presents than I am. But I've had this for years; it was given to me just before I went off to war. It's still running just as it was then, never lost a second in all these years. We always said it was a reminder of life; precious, running faster than can be comprehended, but always ongoing nonetheless. Enduring even in the face of adversity. I should have given it sooner. Hopefully it'll be a charm."_

She could have cried. She did when she returned to the servants' hall; thankfully, she was on her own. Mostly she was able to hold back, restrain herself, but she was still prone to apparently random bursts of tears; not that anyone did so much as raise an eyebrow when she set off anymore except for Mrs Hughes, whose face was cast with motherly concern and a look that conveyed not only comfort but a distinctive kind of empathy; one which knew only too well the pain she was going through, spoke to it in its own language. She circled the watch into her palm and opened it carefully. A clock that was counting down. She held it up close to her ear, examining the steady ticks, beating rhythmically and reliably like a heart. Then she studied its face, the slow but sure hands working their way round and round.  _Still going;_   _not stopped yet._ She kept her eyes on it for some time, though it probably wasn't that long in the time it was measuring. She had another silly thought that the second she chose to look away would be the second it did finally stutter, jump millimetres backwards: stop. Hold her forever where she was; adrift and lost without a guide.

Out of all the things that had been thrown into disarray, it was time itself that had been most firmly shaken free from its fixings: spinning, slipping, removing her completely. It did not help that the past month had gone by in an almost incomprehensible blur. Most of it had been spent trying to track this man down – she had been told his name but had chosen to discard it; she did not want to personalise him, give him any other recognition aside from assigning the only name that mattered:  _the man who actually murdered the former Mrs Bates._ Men had chased across the country, Mr Crawley and the Earl making hours of calls trying to trace exact whereabouts. When there was nowhere left to run and the conviction had been made, Anna was still left sitting on the sidelines, a passive spectator to her husband's fate, unable to ascertain whether it wasn't just all an illusion. Since then time had been moving in quite the reverse: even with the reliably quick pace of life at Downton keeping her endlessly busy, everything inside her head progressed in slow-motion. She wasn't sure it was simply anticipation: it was as if the walls that had held fast during the worst of it were finally giving way, crumbling beneath the weight.

A line of poetry echoed; something she had heard Lady Edith read from one of the letters she still received from the many soldiers she had befriended in the aftermath of war:  _Time swims before me, making as a day a thousand years._ It did not so much swim before her but whirled and crashed. All at once it would wash over her and pull her under, the lights on the distant horizon flickering out one by one. Some days could pass in the blink of an eye; not especially eventful but full of seconds, minutes, hours that had flown away and were never to be revisited, inhabited instead with conversations, glances, smiles, kisses. Others – most – were endless. Crawling, barely even conscious; flowing into one another and flooding her senses. Dragging her down with them, making her just as slow and sluggish and drawing her closer to surrender. Looking in either direction offered little chance to escape. The future was out of bounds: a place where she may once have belonged, very happily, but that she was now banished from. Her refuge was the past, but that had receded even further out of reach; no matter how far she tried to run back to it, each passing day lengthened its distance a little more, ensuring she could never get to her desired destination. And yet she was surrounded by it everywhere she turned; the house breathing it out, the scenes of her past –  _their past_ – still living on but failing to fill her with life. It was not for want of trying. Every day she found herself lingering a little longer than she should in the places that personified their love; the courtyard where they would go each evening without fail to talk in private about everything and nothing, the adjoining gardens that they would walk through on the sunny Sunday afternoons they had free. Even though it had been unattended for some time and so never needed much attention, she would find the time every other day to enter the room that Lady Mary had arranged for them to stay in on their wedding night – the one and only night they had spent together as husband and wife, so long ago and such a small fragment of their relationship, but the memory of which returned to her night after night. However much she willed its revival, along with the other precious moments, she could not bring them back; didn't hold enough breath within her to get them past mere sentience. They were replicas, a spectrum of colours fading fast. All the while she continued to be swallowed by the blackness of the present: the ever-present. Always running in its circles.

Her hand ran the length of her narrow single bed, drifting from the covers crumpled after an exceptionally restless night to the silky smoothness of the outfit she had carefully chosen to wear laid on top of them. She didn't have that much to choose from but there was only ever going to be one option for today. Her wedding outfit. Unworn, untouched in her wardrobe since that wonderful day. It may not have been anywhere near as exquisite as Lady Mary's had been but to her it was beautiful. It had made her feel incredibly beautiful, especially when she caught sight of the smile sparking in John's eyes as he saw her arrive, appearing proudly on his face just before he took her arm in his and they entered the registry office together. The smile that extended and exploded into unabashed joy; the smile that she stole for her own. She stroked the long blue skirt and thought of that smile, hoped that today she would see it return. That the past would burst to life once more, unite with the present and carry them into a bright and blissfully happy future.

Her fingers sprung at once from the fabric up to her other hand, which was cradled instinctively over her left side of her chest. Like magnets they were drawn to the golden band that resided there. It did not glimmer anymore, not like the watch, its shine rubbed away with the amount of attention she had given it daily. A perfect circle, even though it had marked an imperfect beginning.  _Always ongoing; enduring even in the face of adversity._ She would have no problem living her life in this circle. If only she could find a way back in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional credit to Matthew Arnold, Edward Thomas and Robert Frost for the poetic words of inspiration.


	2. To Earthward

Anna leant back, turning her head towards the sky. The sun was hazy and masquerading behind a blanket of cloud, straining to break through its barrier. The smouldering breeze picked up, swirling in the atmosphere, threatening to shake the overhanging tree clean of its leaves and sending the gathered dust of the earth soaring into the air. She swiftly set her gaze back down and gripped her hands tight against the edge of the iron bench, glad to feel something solid: to be centred. Another daze had descended upon her during the journey, an intense and frightening kind which made her at once acutely aware of every inch of herself pulsing wildly and yet detached, disconnected. The world shifted suddenly, caving in around her in the cab of the car. Her heart, having risen to rest at the back of her throat, hammered at a horrifying rate. Her skin tightened, shrinking on her slight frame; everything feeling far, far too small all of a sudden. She had the urge to bang her fists against the partition, clamber out of the moving vehicle as it shuddered along. Her legs already felt as they if they were flying from underneath her, restless and lighter than air itself, they were fixed and tensing against the seat. When she was granted her escape she didn't expect that they would be able to carry her out, was sure that her knees would buckle beneath her. Somehow they didn't and had sent her along to where she was now sitting. The tension had turned her limbs heavy, casting them to the same substance as the lone bench, although her head retained a dizzying weightlessness. She had been thoroughly disappointed to discover that she was not to be allowed inside for their reunion –  _yet more time to count down, to keep waiting_  – but was easier about it now, feeling claustrophobic enough even in the outside space. She inhaled a large portion of the air, as dust-ridden as it was, hoping it would resettle her; bring her back to some sort of equilibrium, back down to earth.

She looked across the way towards the prison, two tall rusting gates obstructing its path and severing it from the rest of the world. Its own demeanour immovable and impenetrable, yet it was responsible for a vast range of emotions erupting at her core. She was reminded of the first time she went there, standing insignificant in its wake as it towered imposing over her, taunting mercilessly. She had only ever remembered feeling that small and scared once before in her life – as she arrived as a young girl at Downton, so much expectation weighing heavily on her inexperienced shoulders. But then, even as she was scared out of her wits, she knew it was good; embraced the nervous excitement that accompanied a new beginning, an entire future that lay ahead for her. The fear was altogether more unbearable when it marked a certain end. As intimidated as she was she remained composed, fighting back demons with all her might. She would not turn and run away. She would have walked over broken glass and through any number of infernos to be with John again for even a moment. Now, the place no longer terrified her. Instead it made her feel many other things: anger, resentment, defiance, frustration, sorrow, gratitude. Despite the darkness and disorder, she felt a security there that was lacking elsewhere. She knew it had everything to do with being near him; his presence in the same building, never mind the same room, protecting her completely and making her safe from all harm.

Then she recalled her last visit. It had been more than a month previous, before anyone had discovered anything about the real culprit of the crime that kept him so unjustly incarcerated, likely for the rest of his days: though neither made mention of it anymore, hoping the fact would cease to be true if unspoken. On that afternoon the flicker of delight she would feel on catching the longed-for sight of him, real in front of her eyes rather than conjured up by the mists of her mind, evaporated promptly when she witnessed how weary and utterly worn-down he was. She had noticed it immediately; it was etched deep upon his features. His face had become drawn, tired, hanging heavy with sadness. His eyes searched her own, imploring, looking urgently for an unknown answer to an unanswerable question. She could distinguish a redness round their rims, the tell-tale tracks of tears cried not too long ago. He still smiled as she sat down, seeing that she was shaken by his appearance, aiming to reassure her silently that he really was fine. It was a smile that didn't meet his eyes, seeming forced as if he'd forgotten how to do so, but at the same time sincere. Her own eyes prickled with hot tears which she willed not to fall; she had promised herself that she wouldn't cry in front of him, wouldn't spoil the short time they had together. His hand reached across the table and she stretched hers to meet it without thinking. He grasped it in his own, squeezing it intently before relaxing his grip, thinking perhaps he had alarmed her a little too much with his desperate need. Instead he began to stroke her palm softly, his touch wraithlike; the last remnants of his fervour used up in that first frantic clasping of fingers. Barely felt caresses encapsulating what he had become: a forlorn phantom of a man. Her heart sank to her feet, aching intensely for him. She wanted instantly to pull him close, cradle his head tight to her chest, place kisses on his hair and circle her arms soothingly around his frame, covering him with her love and devotion. She would have done so if only that damn guard wasn't standing there, observing every miniscule movement they made with an unyielding stare. Instead she closed both of her hands around the one of his that lay on the table and gently but attentively swept her fingertips over it, a modest gesture of affection and comfort. It was not enough but nothing ever was here. As she continued to placate him, they began to talk; his façade slowly but surely resurfacing, the ever-noble John Bates returning to deftly conceal his distress. It was an instinct, a habit so firmly ingrained in his nature that it was slipped on subconsciously. She knew that he was wearing this mask for her sake, but it had the adverse effect of making her sorrow swell. She wished that he would cry out, let his tears flow forth even if they would stab at her soul, say what she knew he truly felt at the bottom of his heart; that he was giving up all hope, was ready to relinquish completely. But he wouldn't; he didn't, remained stoic and strong as ever, at least on the outside, betraying and burying his despair deep within. Anna cursed this entirely impossible situation and everything it had created. For so long, they had been hiding from everyone else and now, when they had to no longer, all this had made them hide themselves from one another. It was the one thing that she had never wanted to happen, and it made her want to weep.

But she realised with remorse that she was no better, her own deceits hanging over her head, surely becoming patently visible despite her attempts to veil them. The inevitable queries would arise:  _Was she keeping well? How was everything, inside of Downton and beyond its doors?_ Underneath the innocuous and in words unspoken, a more insistent line of questioning, wanting urgently to know whether she had kept the promises she somewhat reluctantly vowed to him: to make friends, to have fun, to continue to live her life purposefully and, he hoped, happily. The best she could do was to pin on an encouraging but inherently false smile, ensuring that her gaze did not fall from his own thus betraying her, and say  _yes, she was doing so well_ ; all the while feeling deeply shameful for deceiving him so plainly. She simply couldn't confess that she was very far from being contented and carefree, was instead wracked with worry, wondering about him; wishing every moment that she would turn a corner of the house and find him suddenly there, the only person she could and could ever want to spend happy hours with. A number of maids had begun at Downton since he had been gone and while she had made her best efforts to strike up companionships, was as welcoming as she had always been with new arrivals, she found herself shunned. Nobody wanted to be seen getting too close to the  _murderer's wife_ , unless it was to find out information – not that they would dare be so bold as to directly satisfy their curiosity. Instead she was the subject of scurrilous gossip and conjecture, walking into their whispers with every step she took.

" _Oh, surely she must have known what she was getting into? What a silly girl, tricked by such a devious criminal. And surely that's not all he's done…no, he's been inside before he came here, apparently. A definite record. God knows what he's got up to. Doesn't she have any shame? Not a bit, it seems. She must have been desperate for the attention. And of course he took it: well, a man like that would, without hesitation! Well, she'll have to live with her mistakes now. Unless of course he does the same to her…she should keep her wits about her. All it will take is one little moment, and then he'll snap…"_

Every word they uttered sent fire searing in her stomach, infuriating her. Though hurtful, she didn't care about the comments directed at her: it was what they were saying about John – awful things; sneering and scornful, often entirely offensive – that made her want to snap, scream at them, let them know the entire truth of the matter. But she knew to do so would simply lead them to talk even more, so she did what she could to shut out their vicious mutterings and thought that she would much rather be lonely than befriend anyone like that. However, they had quietened considerably in the last couple of weeks, since an encounter of one evening. Anna was in Lady Mary's room helping her dress for another society dinner party, the latest in a long line since she had married Mr Crawley. Two of the maids, including one who had a particularly loose and sharp tongue, were also in the room – as this was an especially important event, extra hands were needed for preparation. Anna winced at the palpable atmosphere in the room, watching them watch her from the corner of her eye. Instead of trying to determine what they were thinking she put all her energies into ensuring her hands didn't shake and spoil Lady Mary's hair. Luckily, Lady Mary chose to break the tension.

" _Oh Anna, I am so tired of going to these things. I thought there wouldn't be quite so many once I had married but instead they've doubled; indeed, tripled. Perhaps I wouldn't mind so much if there was some interesting company, but unfortunately most of them are utterly frightful. I'm sure I've never met such boring people in my entire life. And my, they do love the sound of their own voices – even though all of what they say is hot air. You know, Granny has a saying: 'Those who speak the loudest understand the least, and those who listen to them understand nothing at all.' I can't think of a truer statement, in any circumstance."_

Her eyes met Anna's in the mirror and she smiled. At her back, Anna perceived awkward shuffling and mumbling as the two other maids decided they were quite done and hurried out of the door. Confusion hazed her face and she opened her mouth to enquire, but was stopped by Lady Mary turning to face her.

" _I overheard them speaking about you and Bates just the other day_.  _They're nowhere near as discreet as they think they are; they clearly haven't learnt the art from O'Brien as yet. Anna, please don't let what they say upset you. They'll soon find another thing to gossip about. If this party is anything like the others, I'm quite sure I will be driven to do something that will give them plenty to talk about."_

Anna allowed herself to laugh softly.  _"I won't, m'lady. And thank you."_

Though she had always felt an affinity with Lady Mary she had been reluctant to term their relationship a friendship, but in the past few months their bond had strengthened: indeed, Lady Mary had become her closest ally and defender in this most turbulent period in her life and she was not only grateful but sincerely heartened by her support. Still, she was not so naïve to easily ignore the vast chasm that remained between them, one which was especially prominent – and painful for Anna – when it came to their respective statuses as married women. There, the distance was immeasurable, widening even more as she placed the delicate silver necklace on Lady Mary, listening to her talk fondly about how Mr Crawley had had it made especially for her and saw her beam in the mirror with the unabashed ecstasy that belonged to a newlywed wife; the delight that by all means, Anna should have been able to match with her own. And so after being buoyed temporarily by some kind words and mirth, when she returned that night to the servants hall the ache of being alone returned to her, stronger than ever.

All too soon the time had come for her to leave him alone once again. Thirty minutes had slipped away unseen and as they sat, hands clasped and bodies having subconsciously drawn closer together – as close as it was possible to get with a huge, immovable physical object obstructing any considerable contact – the guard loomed over them and barked  _"That's it now"_ , determined not to let them have a fraction of privacy. Anna stood, not averting her gaze for one second from John's eyes as they bore into her. With one hand remaining intertwined with his resting on the table that separated them from being able to embrace, her other went to his face, softly touching the temple before curving across his cheek. He closed his eyes momentarily and sighed at her touch, an instinctual response of a husband to a wife but also, more tellingly, an emotional release of a tortured soul. Anna blinked and swallowed hard, trying to rid herself of the lump that engulfed her throat and the tears that were once more clouding her vision. She bent her head to lay a kiss on his other cheek and when she had done so she felt his fingers meet her own, sweeping over them before pulling her hand firmly away from the side of his face. Overwhelmed by emotion and perplexed by his action, she found she couldn't speak. He looked up towards her wide eyes:

" _Anna, promise me…please."_ His voice cracked briefly but noticeably as he finished his request.

" _Don't be silly,"_  her words rushed from her.  _"You'll be home soon enough."_

" _Please, Anna. My life might be finished but yours isn't. Go and be happy."_

She stared down at him and started to shake her head fiercely:  _"But you know I can't, not without…"_

Suddenly strange hands were placed on her; the guard was walking her towards the door:  _"I've told you, time's up."_ As she left the room, pushed along by the nuisance guard, she turned to look over her shoulder and into the small barred window. The sight she witnessed would stay with her, more distressing every time she recalled it in her already over-anxious mind: John curled tight, his broad frame shrunk into a ball, head in hands and splayed on the table where he sat. Shoulders shaking, she was sure, with heavy sobs unleashed upon the minute of her departure. There was no doubt; he had finally come apart and accepted his fate. Was now crumbling, collapsing, crashing to the ground with almighty force as she drifted away.

She gasped abruptly, her breathing becoming too shallow too fast; she felt her lungs contract with a shudder as she choked on the air she was exhaling. The recollection had sent her spiralling out of herself, hurtling toward the earth at a rapid acceleration. Or at least that's what her brain had told her was happening; that she was falling hastily forward without anything to cushion the brutal landing. But in truth she hadn't moved, was still sitting with feet firmly on the ground. When would she stop believing in the tricks that her mind persisted on playing? She loosened her grip on the bench, her hands white and tingling unpleasantly. She shook them, trying to rid herself of the sensation as she lifted her head and looked to the sky once more, eyes drawn to the glowing leaves overhead that barely clung to their branches, trembling against the increasingly hardy autumnal winds. One in particular, a tiny maple leaf on the very edge of the nearest branch, was swaying precariously back and forth; any second its stem would snap and it would come floating serenely down, utterly graceful in its defeat against nature. Anna watched as it descended, almost in slow motion, fixated. She wished to take its place, to be released from her agonising anticipation with the same soft swiftness. Instead she was suspended by an invisible but unbreakable thread, unable to do anything to break free; hanging helpless and entirely at the mercy of some higher power, as unpredictable as it was unkind. Though the cord was soon to be cut, it was only too evident that the wind could change direction in an instant; and so she may still remain, up in the air while everything else had returned earthward.


	3. The Making of Memory

Static.

Like everything, everywhere else. The condition that characterised the entire world, inside and out, had crept into the walls of this courtyard; somehow found a way to invade, making the space seem smaller and more intolerable than it already was.

The wind had stilled to a wisp; there was no sound, no perceptible movement. No sign of life.

Although undeniably unnerving, there was always the possibility that she had misread the signals. After all, her senses were no longer quite so adept, having been progressively trained to expect the worst. Perhaps this stillness wasn't something to be feared; was a preparation for all the good that was to come, a cleansing. The calm after so many storms. It was long overdue; it was bound to come as a shock to the system, disguised, misconstrued.

The devil on her shoulder, burrowing its way fast into her brain, said entirely different and the same as ever.  _Don't be ridiculous; you're only deluding youself. Of course it's bad. How could you possibly think otherwise?_ A feeling all too familiar, but no less devastating to encounter. This day was like every other, before and after it. Except the fall was considerably greater this time around. Out of the oppressive silence came a whisper from within, sounding over and over, becoming louder each time it was repeated:

_He's never coming back_.

Then her mind blanked totally, the static seeping through, blocking out the awful echoes. Again, this was not a sensation that was uncommon to her now; was, in fact, one she would often welcome with open arms when it did arrive, just for some stolen, second-hand sense of peace. For as much as it was hectic, frantic with a million and one distinct thoughts battling each other and collectively waging war on her most of all, there were just as many occasions throughout this ordeal when her mind would simply relent and shut down temporarily; it had to, otherwise it would have short-circuited beyond all repair long ago. The blackout of all conscious feeling and thought would have frightened her in the past, been unthinkable for someone who thrived so much on the fine nuances of her emotions, whether good or bad. But now she was content precisely not to feel – at least not for a little while. Not when almost all that she had felt – in the most real sense of the word – recently had been emotions unwanted, undesired; disappointing and disillusioning. It brought a certain kind of consolation to have everything wiped, an easing of the permanent burden that accompanied her daily. It was self-preservation, pure and simple, and she needed to practise it otherwise she would lose herself completely.

The trouble was, it was happening far too frequently now, and increasingly without her being aware of it taking over. She was no longer in control of her mind; instead it was leading her into territory unknown and, what was worst of all, making her marks on previously-tread ground indistinguishable. Each time she succumbed to the suppression, another small but significant part of the network of her memory was switched off, evaporated gradually from existence. There was a price to pay for erasing the present, she was discovering nearly too late, and that was the extinguishing of the past. Everything had its equivalent – pain with joy – and to bypass one point was to obliterate its opposite, no matter how far apart they were.

Memory was a very strange thing indeed, she had come to realise. The ways in which it functioned in the brain, the fragments it chose to amplify and embed in the recesses, never to be moved or altered by the march of time or failing of faculty, while others of greater substance – at least she had reckoned – became buried deep, concealed closely like secrets never meant to be unearthed, were unfathomable. She had expected to be able to rely on it wholeheartedly, calling upon it in an instant to revive her in the coldest light of day and darkest depths of night. If there were no more memories to be made in the future then at least she would have the ones already created and cherished, dreams realised as compensation for those shattered before they had the chance to begin. Another trap she had wandered into unknowing. The things she had wanted so desperately to remember, resuscitate, were lost in shadows; their colours draining away faster than could be recovered. Snatches would come every now and then - looks exchanged across the servants hall and at the altar, words whispered in corners and vows sworn aloud, the briefest brushes of lips and never-ending embraces – but each time they appeared a little more faded, faltering; clarity blurring, experience forgotten. Outweighed and overwhelmed in the imagination by what was to follow, the memories she willed so hard to vanish but were to appear all the more vivid, against her hope. She wasn't just the passive victim of a cruel subconscious, though: she had her own part to play in this unravelling and unmaking of memory. The skill she had worked fastidiously on honing over the last few months, of selecting, sorting and shutting out all the unfavourable stares and overheard comments that were thrown her way, had become perfected to such a fine art that she had failed to notice how far it had become entrenched in her head. It was unfortunate that it had chosen to work against her, putting up further barriers to pleasure already remote and insistently bringing up the bad, blaring it until she could take no more. In response she had smothered the moments she had held so dear, destroyed them with her own desire to return to them again. She had used them as her shield, wrapped the remains of her happiness tight around her, covering herself so she could not be found by grief. She had conjured them up half-made against their will, used them up, worn them out until there was hardly anything left to sustain her.

And so she lay in bed in the endless run of nights, inviting every possible form of sadness to climb in next to her. Alone, but not quite; instead the room rang out with a cacophony of sounds replayed from the most agonising of all her memories – the ones that were most frequently relived when the hours became dark and silent. The slam of heavy steel doors; the cackling and chattering of a thousand people transformed to vultures. Loudest of all, the piercing primal scream that erupted from her at his moment of judgement, deafening and terrorising; its constant reverberation causing her to shoot up, shuddering and shivering in horror. And then the memory she had kept, clung onto against all odds, rushed to her head, came swiftly to calm her. Another voice, strong and silky and soothing; a whisper so close. She could almost feel him above her once more, his breath warm against her ear as his fingertips caressed the curve of her hip, easing her wedding-night nerves. The words he had said over and over as she truly became his wife and that she had kept in her consciousness ever since:

" _I love you, Anna May Bates. I always have and I always will."_

Listening attentively, never wanting to let go, she closed her eyes and let another blackout take her away, this time punctuated by a glimmer of white-hot stars before everything went blank once more. In the morning, she would wake to find the faint daylight streaming through her window, resting at her side. Her left hand, palm facing upwards, was placed parallel to her head on the pillow, fingers curled as if they were joined fast with another's, invisible. Remembering:  _their two hands laced together; united, inseparable, laying in the very same place as he repeated his vow, kissed her face, connected them closer than ever…_ She could perceive an absence, an aching for the loss of contact. She attempted to lift it from the bed but it steadfastly refused to cooperate, having become separate from her. A dead weight, yearning for the life that could only be provided by the touch it had started to forget.

She had not noticed how tightly her hands had become clasped as she paced back and forth across the ground, looking more on the verge of sentence than release. Stopping still, she relaxed and prised them slowly apart. She turned up the palm of the left, staring fixedly at its lines and creases, the ring that rested firmly and lone there.  _Missing_. She began stroking over the fingers with her other hand – a poor substitute, she knew, but given the circumstances the only option she had – marking the route, tracing where his touch had been so many times but nowhere near enough. Trying aimlessly to get something back, hoping that it hadn't disappeared forever. Waiting for the spark to reignite, but nothing came. She was still surprised, and deeply unsettled, by the lack of feeling within her. All that she could really determine was a throbbing in her head and limbs that alternated with weakness and the acidic burning in the pit of her stomach that would surge occasionally, on the phantom swing of a gate or apparent footfall in the distance. Neither were pleasant sensations, not the excitement that would be expected to accompany a long-awaited arrival. No exhilarating rush of blood, wings of butterflies absent. It was more than worrying; it was absolutely terrifying.

Another snatch of a memory came suddenly flying back, elucidating with her uneasy wondering of that precise present moment. It was the night before their wedding and they were both standing in the courtyard, a sliver of a silver moon casting a glow across their faces. They were in a perfect, comfortable silence; Anna gazing at the night sky, euphoria dancing around inside her as she contemplated the fact that in mere hours she would finally be married to the man she loved and adored in actuality, although she had been married to him in her mind for years. As a sizeable smile spread across her face, John's hand rested on her arm and his voice came forth.

" _It's not too late to reconsider; I can go down first thing and cancel if you wish"_.

The smile was still on her lips as she turned towards him, taking what he'd said for a strangely phrased joke, and she replied with more than a hint of mischief in her tone.

" _John Bates, if this is your way of saying you have second thoughts, then I'm going to march to the registrar's house to wake him up and demand that he marry us right now. But not before I get hold of one of Mrs Patmore's heaviest pans to knock some sense into you."_

Her attempts at humour turned him even graver.  _"Anna, I'm serious…"_ He took both her hands in his and she felt her heart flutter in her chest, half with the thrill that the feeling of his skin against her own always produced and half with the fear that he was about to say something that would shatter her whole world. He sighed heavily before he continued.

" _Believe me when I say that coming here and finding you was the best thing to ever happen to me. I still can't quite believe that a man like me could be granted such good fortune and happiness, not after everything I've done. Anna Smith, you have changed my life beyond compare; you have changed me. You are a miracle."_

His eyes, having twinkled like stars as he showered praise on her, abruptly shadowed.

" _But I am certain that if we marry I will change you, and not for the better. It eventually happens to everyone; the poison around me, it infects everything. And if I were to alter you, even in the smallest way, it would be worse than all of my bad deeds put together. I would not be able to bear it."_

His glance drifted from her eyes downwards, as if he was trying to steel himself from imminent rejection. Anna was so saddened by what she had just heard him say, for his insecurity that still persisted.

" _John, look at me."_

His head lifted as she leaned in closer to him and placed her hands on his chest, his heart beating fiercely at her slightest touch.

" _First of all, you are not poisonous, or cursed, or anything else silly like that. I have never known a man so good, so full of honour and kindness…and love."_ She tangled a hand in one of his, raising it to her lips and kissing the knuckles.  _"And you have already changed me. You changed me from the second you walked through the door. Before then I was just going along, not knowing anything at all about how much I could be. You made me come alive. I'm not sure how much more I can be altered, because I feel as though I couldn't possibly love you more than I already do and I certainly won't love you any less. But I do know that whatever change does come, it will be wonderful because it will happen to us both, together. And that I'm more than ready for it; in fact, I've been waiting for it forever."_

The smile from moments back reappeared, bigger than before, and she beamed as beautifully as the moonlight that framed them. She noticed it mirrored on his mouth, her eyes held to the captivating curl of his lips. She drew even closer, grasping the lapels of his jacket and elevating herself on tiptoe, him meeting her halfway before their mouths met in a tender kiss, filled with reassurances and promises, and love above all. Pulling away a little light-headed Anna smoothed her hands down John's chest, tugging the edge of his jacket slightly, affirming her confidence.

" _And if there's one thing you should know by now, John Bates, is once my mind is made up it can't be changed for anything."_ She sprung up quickly on her toes to plant a kiss on his cheek before dashing towards the door.  _"Not a thing."_

As she stood there, glaring down at her open hands and then up at the grey building loitering behind its stagnant gates, realisation came upon her, snapping her ardently out of her trance. Perhaps she didn't know herself as well as she had thought. Perhaps she had changed. Or rather, that all this had changed her. It would not be at all unreasonable - in fact it seemed inevitable - but nonetheless the bolt struck her forcefully. She knew for certain that she still loved John; would always love him. But love had many guises and there were no guarantees that one form would not turn into another, seamless, leaving whatever had gone before lost forever. Perhaps the transformation had already happened with her unaware. The want of strong sensations could certainly be explained by an evaporation of passion, given way to something steadier, fine in itself but with a vital component missing.  _Missing._  That word again, resonating in her head. Desire overshadowed by duty instead. A compensation; a dull imitation. It could be enough, maybe. The fire in her stomach seared fiercer than it had done before as she dared to even consider the thought. Right at that moment, it was all too much. Panic, impatience and deep distress gathered and imploded at once inside of her and she was struck with the urge she'd had the very first time she'd came here: to run, as far as possible, all the way back to Downton if her legs would carry her the distance. It had been wrong to come here when she was in such a perturbed state; even though she wouldn't be the first person he would see unconfined, it was better that than have him confronted with the radical change in her, plain before his eyes, sure to leave him deflated immediately. She turned away from the gates, pulling the silver watch from her pocket and fumbling with its cover.  _Still running._  She placed her fingers tentatively on the winder, wanting to send the hands jumping forwards, hoping that the action would somehow take her along in time too: to a place where they were together, sitting in the hall or maybe even in that secret room again, side by side in peace and harmony; or otherwise, her lying in that single bed, cocooned away, waiting again for the blackout to consume her.

A mere second was all it took; less than that. A miniscule movement upon the watch-face, marking an imperceptible measure of time, which stopped the chaos and set the axes straight.

A series of sounds broke through the static that surrounded her. She dismissed the first, a swift clatter and clash of metal followed by a screeching creak that echoed on the air.  _Just another trick; a figment of the imagination_. This was also how she accounted for the gentle thud of the steps, accompanied by a steady, regular tap. It was only when the voice came, smooth and measured, that the illusion ceased and shattered.

" _I'd hoped I'd find you here."_

The sound a force, calling to her and being silently answered by the wild thudding of her heart, bringing her back to herself as it had done during her night-time hallucinations and hazy half-dreams. But now it was more powerful; now, it was real. Holding her completely captivated.

Anna spun around instantly, dizzy with expectation. It was true. There he was, standing just yards away from her.

No sooner had she processed the sight that should have been unremarkable but as it was was completely astounding, she saw it happen, before she was even aware that her gaze had fallen upon him. The smile, shining so bright upon his face as he kept looking at her, his eyes never leaving hers. The very same one she'd seen him wear in only one other place before. Warmth radiated within her chest, filling her body from head to toe, and she could feel the corners of her mouth lifting, stretching almost above her eyes; his joy making and meeting her own.

The world around her had not visibly transformed; the sun was still shrouded by clouds, there was no sudden flash of light from the sky. But inside her everything had altered; or, more precisely, was restored to the way it was, the way it had always been. The unfounded doubts she'd possessed evaporating to nothing; the shadows lifted and the chains unbound. It should have been overwhelming, and in some ways it was - this explosion of energy and emotion – but more than anything, it made perfect sense to her. The first time in a long time that anything had made sense. As she started to move, gliding as if in a dream, she perceived that her outlook had become clearer, more defined. The colours of everything were brighter, seemed to be bursting. Life flowing through every thread, each and every part connected. And she was connected to it all too, this world moving in motion; after being on its edges for what seemed an eternity, she was part of it once more.  _Set free_.

She continued to close the short distance between them, steps turning into miles. All at once time speeded, racing through her veins and making her head swim, then slowed and stretched nearly out of reach. She felt like she should be beating against the tide, rushing forward, running straight into his embrace without thought or regard for propriety. It was what she had longed to do, the thing she had imagined over and again that she would do when this moment arrived. But now it was here, it was altogether different. The feeling of anticipation that for months, years she had hated and cursed had taken on a far sweeter form, sending delightful shivers playing up and down her spine, and she didn't want to get rid of the sensation just yet. Besides, she felt strongly that she needed to fully acknowledge the moment; hold it close before it fled, let herself be absorbed wholly by it, live it fully. It was more than she could do right then, unable to contain all the life that bounded from her, but she would appreciate it in time to come. Now she knew the true value of memory and here it was in the making. This was the one that would live on forever, could never be erased; was to be the starting point of a million other memories, more wonderful than the ones that had gone before.

And then, before she knew, she was there, right in front of him. Inches apart, separated no longer by bars or buildings, but by breath and their own carefully contained restraint. The very particles of oxygen between them fizzled with electricity and Anna had expected to feel it shock her as she sent her fingertips into the air, reaching out tentatively, seeking his. Again they flashed through her mind, all of the actions and demonstrations of love she could have shown, but it was the simplest, purest of gestures that both of them chose. The touch of palms, sweep of fingers first finding each other then closing fast, clasping, connecting. As their hands met so too did their souls, pulses brushing and making hearts fall back into rhythm, matching each other beat for beat. Anna's breath caught as John's other hand traced up the arm hanging by her side, fingers travelling along her shoulder and ghosting her collarbone before cupping her face with the tender strength only he was capable of. She steadied herself by placing her hand on his waist, feeling overcome and shy all of a sudden, as if she'd been whirled into the past and they were meeting for the very first time; old feelings clambering to the surface and colliding with new ones. But then, spurred on by excitement, she became bold and tightened her grasp, bringing him closer as he smiled down at her, his thumb rubbing continuous circles on her cheek.

" _Oh Anna, my dearest..."_ he began, voice thick with emotion.  _"I had thought this day would never come."_

She gazed up into his eyes, still somewhat unable to believe his presence here, holding on to her with such intensity. Her words shook slightly as she said them.  _"I never doubted it would. Not ever…"_

She was stopped short by the sobs that gathered in her throat, a fat tear rolling unbidden from her eye.

" _What's this?"_  His voice was soft and reassuring. A wave of heat flushed her face as she hurried to explain, though she wasn't even sure why she had begun to cry, thinking that she couldn't possibly have any tears left in her.  _"Oh…John…I don't…it's just I can't quite…"_  Her hand grasped onto his back, running up and down frantically as she fumbled with her words.

" _Shhhh…"_ He deftly and gently wiped away her single tear with his thumb, sweeping it down her face and then letting it rest with his other fingers on her chin. He stroked soothingly before raising it, leaning to her and laying the softest, sweetest kiss on her lips. Her hand instinctively sprang to his face, fingers threading in his hair as the kiss deepened, all of their love and longing poured in to it. Her left hand was still joined in his right, not yet separated from the first touch, and Anna felt John squeeze them tighter together as the fingers of his left hand ran over the back of her neck, leaving tingles live and dancing all over her. As what seemed like whole hours had passed with them entwined, they finally broke apart. His touch returned to the side of her face, and as he caressed tenderly he brought his mouth up to her ear. Then, he whispered:

" _I love you, Anna May Bates. I always have and I always will."_

The unconcealed sun shone high in the sky, warming them as they walked down the path, arm in arm. Curling her linked arm closer around his and resting her head below his shoulder, Anna closed her eyes and smiled contentedly, breathing in the bliss of the moment. For minutes she was back in time to that glorious April afternoon, where they had walked in the very same way, smiles bursting and hearts singing. They could have stayed there, in that spot just outside those gates, for hours; not moving an inch, holding on to each other and letting the time they'd lost fill up again, the world falling away around them. But it didn't seem right to give that place so much reverence in their reunion; they'd had their victory over it, could replace its bitterness with sweetness in their memory and leave its shadows in the past, expelled by the light of their future. Also, they had been expected at Downton some time ago – the Earl had insisted upon a lavish welcoming party to greet the arrival home of his most trusted and accomplished valet and most treasured friend. Though they were both exhausted it would be wonderful to be back, to take in all of the excitement and well-wishes. To be back home, where he – they both belonged. The thought came into her head of the evening to come, when the party had ended and it would just be the two of them again; alone, at long last. Her hand slipped to the silver watch now in his pocket; if only the hands could skip forward again…she giggled to herself and briefly coloured like the crimson leaves that clung to the trees overhead.

As she raised her head and looked at those leaves, taking in their radiance and bright, brilliant shades for the first time that day, it dawned on her how perfect it all was. It came back to her then; the reason why autumn was her favourite season. It was the nature of it, always amazing to her as a little girl, watching the world explode from her window. When it was thought that all of the wonder of the year was over with the passing of the summer days, autumn would come as a wonderful surprise, more beautiful than anything that had been before. She remembered seeing the fragile leaves cascading and rushing outside, scooping them up like petals.  _The second spring_ , her mother had called it; the time where everything got the chance to change, renew, begin again. Walking along with her husband under a canopy of converted flowers, she knew it had arrived for them; their new start, their second spring.


End file.
